


How To Raise A Dragon For Idiots

by MeanwhileMelody



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Bad egg etiquette, Do not touch Stiles' baby, Dragons, Lamb is put in a blender, M/M, Magic!Stiles, More angst than les mis, Report all dragon eggs to your local librarian, Slow Burn, UST, Witches, do not try this at home, dragon!AU, family fic, kissus interuptus, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-03 19:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5303270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeanwhileMelody/pseuds/MeanwhileMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One accidental blood sacrifice later, Stiles' egg is hatching, the witches are still at large, and no amount of Game of Thrones could prepare Stiles for parenthood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Facts were facts, and the facts were these. Derek Hale was the biggest asshole on the planet, witches were never to be trusted, and Stiles Stilinski was nowhere near being ready to be a parent. In fact, he was the opposite of being prepared. He’d never read a book, he’d never watched an educational video, he’d never even gone to a single ‘How to not fuck up your infant’ class. And judging by the tiny, crackling sounds going on in his warm little egg, he wasn’t going to get a chance to so much as watch an infomercial. He wondered what they’d call it, anyways. How to raise a dragon for idiots?

This is how it happened. And it all happened because of Derek Hale. Stiles would go to his grave, saying that. Because who else but that dark, broody asshole would have landed Stiles in this mess? Talk it out, probably wasn’t even in the man’s dictionary. He saw a threat, and he jumped in, fangs first, without so much as alerting the human he’d towed along with him as ‘backup’, that an actual fight was going down. Stiles didn’t even bring his bat. 

So he was standing there, defenseless in his soft, very sliceable human skin, while a coven wielded some very sharp looking athames at them. Honestly. One mention of magic, and Derek had a hand on Stiles’ collar, and was towing him along. A few books, and a few more cryptic, useless, completely uninformative sessions with Deaton didn’t make him fucking Harry Potter, alright? But did Derek seem to care? No. No, not at all. Stiles was the one with the spark, and therefore, Stiles was the one to call when some bad juju was going down. And this? This was some seriously bad juju.

There were spirals and runes and so many pentacles on the ground that Stiles nearly keeled over on the spot, trying to decipher them all. This was serious magic. Not levitating the remote so he didn’t have to stop popping chips in his mouth while watching Game of Thrones. At least Derek wasn’t dumb enough to break the protective circle around the ritual space. God knew what kind of demons these assholes were trying to summon. Stiles had met a demon before. Been there, done that, clung to life with bleeding fingernails, and going back to that was a resounding Fuck No. 

Speaking of ‘those assholes’. The witches were honest to God terrifying. Stiles could only watch in horror, as they attacked Derek in a flurry of cold steel, spells, and skin. Stiles found himself stuck back in a history book about the Celts and the Romans. How did the Celts, who’d never fought an army armed, trained, and infamous as the Romans were? They ran at them buck naked. Terrified the fuck out of any sane person, actually, and Stiles could only gape at the sky clad witches in horror, until Derek, fangs out, claws bloody, eyes blazing, roared at him. “You’re taking your Goddamn time, Stilinski!” Then all hell broke loose.

Stiles was never actually clear, later, on who did it. Everything had happened so fast, and honestly, he’d been concentrating a lot more on one of the dude witches’ jiggly bits than the few protective spells Derek had probably hoped he’d be casting. Could anyone blame him? Naked. Witches. You did not see that every day. If you did, you’d probably end up in a mental hospital shaking and twitching and mumbling something akin to ‘they’ll never take me alive’. But someone, some idiot, broke the circle. Stiles had his money on Derek, the big, grumpy clod.

Everyone with half a brain, who knew about magic or even just the supernatural world in general, knew to not, under any circumstances, break a protective circle. Especially not when the circle was cast by a homicidal coven with a predilection for blood sacrifice. Why did you not break a circle? Because every big, bad, creepy crawly in your general vicinity suddenly got access to a whole lot of magical energy. It meant demons, it meant ghouls, it meant a whole lot of hell, and a whole lot more get the hell out of there.

And Stiles would have done just that, run for his miserable, short, human life- if Derek hadn’t been locked in a fight to the death. Now, at this point, while Stiles was saying his goodbyes in his head, wondering if Scott would cry at his funeral and his dad would spring for a cool gravestone, most of the witches had run for the hills. But did Stiles get to run? No. Know why? Because his idiot packmate, who had gotten him in this terrible situation to begin with, was still grappling with a brunette who looked ready to hex him right to Hades. 

So Stiles, even though, usually, he mostly did running, hiding, and the occasional screaming during one of the big, epic, battles of the week- stepped in. He groped around the ground, until his hands found a suitable weapon. A rock, roughly the size of a football, was what he ended up with. He sent up a silent prayer to whoever kept him invisible to their enemies- because, really, no supernatural ever noticed a human when there was a werewolf to battle it out with. And if Stiles encouraged that with a few experimental spells of invisibility, well, that was his business. They worked pretty well, if he didn’t move. But it seemed that no spell was strong enough to conceal all that awkward when he got to flailing around. And now he was moving.

Lucky for Stiles, the witch was fairly occupied, with her death match. It wasn’t difficult to come up behind her, Derek’s eyes locking onto his for a moment, and then, there was a loud crack, like thunder, and Derek had the limp body of the witch slapped down onto him, her long curtain of hair in his face. Spitting out strands of brown, Derek could only glare at Stiles, who shrugged, rock clutched hard in his hands. Then Derek’s eyes, which usually remained in glares, stares, or slits of disdain, widened into something like shock. And Stiles knew something was very, very wrong. 

“It’s right behind me, isn’t it?” Here it comes. Here it is. Death has come at last for Stiles Stilinski. And it had to be gruesome if it made Derek looked as shell shocked as that. Demon King? Vengeful Ghost? Please, God, nothing with possessions. Stiles braced for impact, eyes squeezed closed. And he waited. And waited. And probably missed an entire symphony of eyebrow scrunches and rolling of eyes. Finally, though, he got tired of waiting, and spun around, only to see an empty ritual field. Nothing paranormal there. Back at Derek, still looking surprised, even if now it was tempered with the usual annoyance Stiles inspired in him, and minus the unconscious witch draped over him. She had been neatly deposited in the dirt, while Derek stared at him, eyebrow raised significantly. 

Stiles hated that look; he’d always hated that look. It was the ‘get it together, ignorant human’ look. Worse, it was the ‘I know more than you about this particular supernatural phenomenon’ look. Wordless except for an irritated grunt, as usual, Derek reached to take his rock from him. And Stiles, ornery as he was, clung to it, stubbornly. “No way, hands off, we don’t all have fangs and claws-“Gusty sigh from Derek, small twitch of rage in his left eyebrow. Translated to- Shut up Stiles. An old favorite.  
“Stiles. Look at what you’re holding.”

Obediently, Stiles looked down at his hands. Was Derek hooked up on the smear of blood on his rock? It wasn’t enough to have killed the witch, Stiles didn’t get why he’d be pissed. In fact, Derek was a staunch supporter of the ‘If they want to kill you, kill them first’ rule. He looked at his rock for a while. But it wasn’t sight that made him get it. It was that rocks don’t have a pulse.

If you saw it, it looked like a normal rock. Grey, and mottled a bit, as if mimicking sunshine and shade. Perfectly camouflaged. It was weighty as any other rock, and rough to the touch. Stiles bet anything that if he licked it, it would give off that gritty, dirt and sand taste that five year old him had found when he thought chewing on a pebble was a fantastic idea. But it was warm. Giving off warmth actually, like curling up under a blanket with a friend. Body heat. And there was a subtle thudding; pulsing outwards, onto all the places Stiles’ skin touched the thing. The egg.

Stiles dropped the egg. Scott could make all the jokes he liked about dropping a baby on its head, but if he’d ended up bashing a witch over the head, with a too big, too hard, egg, he’d have dropped it too. Lucky for Stiles, the werewolf currently with him, wasn’t half as clumsy, and happened to be twice as agile. He caught it before it hit the ground. 

Secretly, Stiles thought that even if the egg had had a full on collision with the dirt, it would have been just fine. It had just taken on a witch’s skull and won, after all. But judging by Derek’s rebuking look, he was a disgusting monster who should never, ever, be allowed to carry anything precious like a baby in an egg. “That is not, how we are going to dispose of it. Don’t you know anything? If this is what I think it is, it’s blood is acidic to humans.” Derek’s voice was hard, and too patronizing for Stiles’ taste, and he was already boiling at the fact that it seemed like every single supernatural thing had it out for humans. So he snatched his egg back, and held it against his chest. 

“Dispose of it? What the hell is wrong with you? It’s alive!” And maybe Stiles was a little more angry over Derek being a condescending asshole, than Derek wanting to eliminate a giant lizard with fire breath, but he still cradled the egg close, feeling it’s pulse, so fast, too fast, his own heart syncing up with it. Derek had probably heard it from the beginning. And he still wanted to kill it? It was just a baby! An acidic, terrifying monster baby. But a baby all the same. The look on Derek’s face told him everything he needed to know. To Derek, a monster was a monster and a threat was a threat. If something had the potential to hurt his pack, it was ruthlessly taken down. Kill or be killed.

Stiles understood that. More than anyone would ever give him credit for. He wasn’t afraid, of that dark, determined part of himself, like Scott was. Scott felt like he needed to be good, needed to be the hero all the time. Derek felt like he needed to be strong, to save everyone, all the time. Stiles, just knew he would do whatever needed to be done. But this small, oval rock, with a heart beating out a rapid pulse into his hands, this wasn’t a monster. The egg wasn’t attacking anyone. It hadn’t done anything wrong, except maybe come to life, because Stiles had offered it an eensy tiny blood sacrifice and a few witches had been looking for a killing machine to do their bidding. 

“We’re not killing it. That’s final.”  
“Stiles, we have to kill it.”  
“Not gonna let you kill it. “  
Clearly exasperated with Stiles, Derek lunged for the egg. His claws weren’t out, his eyes were hazel, and he wasn’t baring any fang. He was probably just going to take the egg from Stiles, not even a bruise on the thing. And still. Stiles reacted with the kind of merciless maternal instinct he’d never thought he’d have in him. His arms remained cradling the egg, but he was pushing Derek back. With magic. A burst of hard, pure, angry magic, that circled around both him, and the egg. 

He’d brought this egg into this world, Stiles decided. Or, at least, rescued it from being hand reared by a murderous gang of witches. That meant, the egg was his, not Derek’s, and until there was fire breathing, destroyed towns, and several princesses carried off to evil lairs, this egg was not going anywhere, except under a blanket, maybe.

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.” Derek informed him, obviously put out at having been repelled so successfully by Stiles’ fledgling magic. Not even a druid and he could still keep handsy werewolves away from what was his. Stiles felt a certain burst of pride, even if he knew deep down, that he’d never be able to do something like that on command. It was just instinct. When he got angry, when he needed to protect, when he was scared. This was a little bit of all three. 

He knew it was a bad idea. A good idea would be to dunk this thing in ice and run for his life, before it grew up, and turned into trouble. This town could hide werewolves, Kanimas, Banshees, Kitsune, God only knew what else- but Stiles was pretty sure that the citizens of Beacon Hills, and their stalwart oblivious nature were finally pushed over the edge if Stiles let a dragon loose. Hell, he had no guarantees that this thing wouldn’t try to eat him right out of the egg. He took it home anyways. 

“Haven’t you ever seen Jurassic Park?” Scott asked skeptically, eyeing his egg, later that evening, while Stiles carefully and methodically piled up the electric blankets into a cozy nest. “The Dinosaurs are always a bad idea. This is a dinosaur. A dinosaur with wings and fire, which is exponentially worse.”  
“If he eats people, I’ll make sure I season you before he roasts you.” Stiles grumbled in return, snatching his egg out of clawing range, and holding it protectively towards his chest. He didn’t even know himself, what had come over him. Everyone and their mother seemed to know that this was a terrible idea. That Stiles would only end up getting himself, and at worst, others, killed. But then Stiles felt that faint little pulse up against his skin, and the warmth eking out of the egg, and he melted. 

A werewolf done wrong? Batter up. Stiles would take them down; send ‘em six feet under. Something with claws coming his way? Bam, right to the head. Hell, Stiles could even see the logic in taking himself down, when inhabited by a murderous fox demon. But he drew the line, at unborn scaly children who’d done not a damn thing wrong but be born, or, more accurately, shuttled into this world with magic, at the wrong place, in the wrong time. 

He’d control this. He’d raise the little thing. And when it got big, he’d take it out to the forest. It’d be fine. They’d be fine. He could do this. And if his dragon started eating people? Stiles would let what needed to be done, be done. And he’d hate himself the rest of his life. But hey. That wasn’t anything new, was it?

Scott’s look told him everything he needed to know. He made himself busy tugging the red blanket over the egg, cuddling it close and glaring, grimoire open on his lap. All it said on Dragons was the usual. The European variety tended towards flame, destruction, and inevitable chaos. “So. Smaug, or Puff the Magic Dragon?”

And that’s how he ended up here. All alone, room barricaded with mountain ash, in case an idiot werewolf got any ideas about taking the egg and making an omelet before it hatched into a death beast. Motherhood made him paranoid. But it was finally happening. His little monster was finally hatching. It was now or never. Because Stiles knew full well that the moment whatever came out of that egg was out- it was over. How could Stiles resist something he’d watch come into the world? He’d never be able to kill it now.

He already had bottles ready. Pureed lamb, in case it was straight off carnivore. Goat’s milk, in case dragon’s nursed. Meat broth, just in case. Stiles was ready. He had this. He was not afraid. Except for the thrill of terror running down his spine, as he stared expectantly at his soon to be born flamethrower. 

It was a claw, first. Not dramatic, like it was in the movies. Just a little claw, poking it’s way out, towards the world. Towards light. Then, it was an entire wing, membranous, and flapping around pitifully, trapped. The poor thing was scrabbling inside the egg, desperate to get free, and all Stiles could do was watch as the egg shattered all around the creature, until all that was left was a slimy mess and fragments of shell. It was pink, pudgy, covered in slime, and blinking great big bulging eyes at Stiles. It was hideous. It was his.

In his arms in no time, Stiles was toweling off the small, soft little thing, brushing over barely formed scales. They were white now, not yet fully formed, pliable and all too penetrable. Anyone who wanted to kill the poor thing would have had an easy time of it, if Stiles hadn’t been here. A long, skinny tongue flicked out to lick at its snout. Stiles was a complete goner. 

Turns out, Dragons just out the egg aren’t yet ravenous beasts. It turned down both meat broth and milk with a palpable disdain that made Stiles laugh, and coo at it, and only took delicate sips of the lamb, instead of guzzling it straight down. It’s teeth hadn’t even come in yet. It was a gummy, defenseless, baby. Stiles would kill the first person who tried to lay a hand on it. 

“Is that it?” Scott asked, obviously unimpressed, and Stiles huffed, and rocked the little dragon, who’d developed a voracious appetite in the last few days, in his arms. It was not a joy, to tell his dad all about his sudden craving for lamb, and there was simply so hiding the sound of the blender at all hours of the morning. Stiles had gotten very little sleep, keeping his little secret a secret, and Scott’s skepticism, was not helping. 

“This is Puff, yes, and he’s perfect. He’s just growing is all. Aren’t you, baby?” It was their first pack meeting, since Puff had been born, and everyone was looking equally taken aback, as though they’d expected something closer to a baby alligator, born ready with needle sharp fangs and claws and an armor of tough scale. His wriggly, white, roly-poly dragon was obviously not living up to the image in their heads. Defensively, Stiles smacked a kiss on top of the dragon’s head, while it squeaked and hissed it delight.

It had scared Stiles right out of his wits, the first time the dragon had hissed at him. But over a few hours, he’d learned that, contrary to what snakes had lead him to believe, a hiss was actually a sound of joy, coming from a dragon. 

His dragon, who was currently outfitted in a diaper, with a little hole cut through to allow the winding, snake-like tail through, was a particularly talkative little critter. Hell to cover up. Stiles had the television on at all times. And he lit a lot of candles when changing diapers. Not that it helped much. He was forever scarred. If only he’d been able to rope Scott into co-parenting, so he could share the horror.

But unfortunately, it was just Stiles, who’d seen his little bundle of light wailing because it was dirty, and had soothed him back to sleep, and pet him through the entire process, which he was sure was traumatizing for the both of them. The rest of them took a step further back every time Puff vocalized his happiness at meeting them, which offended Stiles to no end. “Does this look like the face of a killer to you?” 

He shook Puff gently in their direction, pointing at the curved python mouth, and the big round eyes. Puff was short of snout, and had a trail of spines down his back and over his long neck. His four, chunky legs, wheeled around despite their inability to actually keep him upright, and his wings were constantly flapping. He took after his father already. Not able to be still for a moment. 

That is, until Puff saw Derek. The entire room seemed to go still for a moment, as Derek, and the Dragon’s eyes met. And then Puff, apparently so overjoyed his little wings were vibrating, let out a long, resounding hiss, usually reserved only for Stiles. 

To be fair, Derek looked almost as offended as Stiles. “He likes you!” Stiles yowled accusingly, glaring hard at the werewolf that dared take Puff’s love from him. “Why does he like you? You haven’t done anything for him!” A reprimanding gaze, aimed down at Puff. “Remember who feeds you, little guy.”

“I don’t know why, your lizard is hissing at me, but make it stop.”

“Don’t you dare call him that, Derek, his name is Puff!”

“And that! Who the hell lets you name things?”

The pack was long immune to their bickering. Puff, was not. Heart breakingly confused, the little dragon looked between him and Derek, letting out a rough, grinding noise Stiles had come to recognize as distress, and his attention immediately went back to his scaly baby. “Now you’ve gone and upset the baby.”

“I didn’t upset anything.” Derek grumbled in reply. “You probably scared him. Raising your voice.”

Guilty with the realization that Derek was probably right, Stiles stroked a hand over Puff’s side, trying to soothe him. “It’s still your fault.” He informed Derek, his eyes never leaving the white ball in his arms. “You called him a lizard. I’m going to kick your furry ass all the way to the pound when there aren’t little eyes present.” 

“As if you could.” Derek snorted. 

More venomous than any Dragon, Stiles just glared hard at Derek, until he could practically feel the tangible electricity between them. Tension before a fight. The pack, who had obviously had quite enough excitement for the day, between the excitement of a dragon in their midst, and Derek and Stiles’ endless fighting, broke it up quickly, to fawn over Puff, and placate Derek in turns. 

It was hours later, when Stiles was putting Puff into his blanket nest, and the rest of the pack had calmed down a bit, certain that they weren’t about to become dragon chow, and almost starting to appreciate puff the way Stiles did, that Derek approached Stiles again. 

“He’s not dangerous, Derek. He’s not.” Stiles was scared, still. That something would go wrong, that he’d lose this, that Derek would take him away. That Puff would do something that would ensure the need to have him taken away. 

“No. He’s not. Not right now.” Derek’s voice was soft, and Stiles’ gaze as he looked at him was equally so. Shoulder to shoulder, they watched a dragon fall asleep. 

Maybe Derek was waving the white flag because he realized, how much Stiles needed this. Stiles took care of people. It was what he did, to avoid taking care of himself. His dad with his diet, Scott with his werewolf crisis. Stiles was always there, inhaler in hand, or a healthy substitute for bacon. But now his life was so complicated. Everyone was dying and leaving, and Scott- Scott had stepped up. He didn’t need saving, anymore. He didn’t need Stiles. 

Stiles’ dad, coping with the supernatural world in general, and Stiles’ lies, hardly wanted Stiles to start lecturing him on salad. Everything was wrong, and upside down, and Stiles was left bereft. He felt like someone had dug around inside him, and hollowed him out, clawed fingers ripping out everything inside him that had once made him good, and worthwhile. People were dying. People were becoming more. Life, was so different. 

And Stiles needed one thing, to feel in control of, in a world where control seemed virtually non-existent. He couldn’t control his magic, couldn’t control who got hurt, couldn’t control himself, when the nogitsune took him. But then, the dragon. Something to take care of. Give him a purpose. Feed Puff in the morning, change Puff when he needed changing, love him, look out for him. It was something to grab onto. Maybe Derek knew that. God only knew he must feel out of control sometimes too. 

So they made peace that night, watching a soft, scaled belly rise up and down as Puff fell asleep. Everyone was shocked. Except maybe Lydia, who eyed them with glowing, knowing, eyes. Stiles didn’t know if he’d ever be convinced that Banshees weren’t also gifted with vision into the future. 

The Peace didn’t last. Single parenting was nowhere as easy as his dad had made it look, and Stiles was exhausted by the second week of hand rearing a dracling. He had bags under his eyes so big they were better off being called suitcases, and he was fairly certain that if he had to change one more diaper as foul and Puff could make them, the scaly little mess maker would be an orphan, because Stiles would gladly give up the ghost just to escape the stench.

So it surprised no one when Stiles had a complete and utter breakdown, by week three. It surprised everyone, however, that it was Derek, who stepped up. And it surprised Stiles the most. Mostly because in every fantasy he had about a man throwing him over a broad shoulder and carrying him to bed, throwing him down upon clean sheets, it ended in ravishment, not being tucked in and told to: ‘Get some rest, you overworked idiot. Humans can’t go this long without sleep’.

Stiles would have argued. Really, he would. He had a snarky comeback all ready, and at the tip of his tongue. A real zinger. But for once, his mind was faster than his mouth, and he actually took a moment. A moment to see Derek, standing there, with Puff curled around his hip like a particularly fashionable snakeskin purse, his eyebrows drawn close, his lips in a thin, worried line- and it only took that moment for Stiles to trust him.

So he slept. He nestled right down into Derek’s sheets, which were a thousand times cleaner than his own, and still smelled strongly of fabric softener, and snored away twelve hours in a sleep so good it was practically a coma.

Waking up, was where it got complicated. First, because he was used to a tiny little furnace draped over him as he caught a few hours of sleep before being woken by the tiny monster. He hadn’t slept alone in nearly a month, and waking up to a bed, completely empty except for him, felt nothing short of wrong.

It was like the morning after a sleepover. That split second where you expected things to be right, for this to be home, and the subsequent heart stopping terror when you realized it wasn’t. When you woke up to surroundings that weren’t yours, without things that were supposed to be there. Things like your kid.

And so, as he was wont to do, Stiles panicked. He fell out of bed, earned himself a truly spectacular bruise on his ass shaped vaguely like Antarctica, and crashed around the loft until he finally found what he was looking for.

Except there was a problem. He didn’t just find Puff. He found Derek Hale, shirtless, covered in what looked like vomit, but was actually just Puff’s morning bottle of lamb shake. His hair was stuck up like porcupine quills, he was on his knees, and Stiles could hear him begging from the doorway he was too shocked to move through. 

“Just one sip. Come on. Drink it. Drink it before I turn you into a pair of shoes for Lydia. Please. I am begging you. One sip. Christ, Stiles is going to kill me-“

He looked desperate, and pitiful, and his voice was so worn out and done, and Stiles wanted it to stay like this forever. This was what he wanted. Messy, and right. Puff turning his nose up at perfectly good lamb shake because it wasn’t the right temperature, and it wasn’t how Stiles made it, and Derek doing his damnedest to take care of a creature he didn’t even like, because he was taking care of Stiles.

Nobody took care of Stiles. His dad was always working, couldn’t be around enough to be a real dad, because he had to put food on the table somehow. And Stiles was the one that took care of Scott, because Scott was always the one that needed taking care of. He was the kind of kid that got his inhaler stolen by bullies, and got bitten by an Alpha because of a midnight jaunt Stiles had urged him out on. So Stiles had always just- taken care of himself. Gone on with his life just like that, having to fix himself whenever he was broken, because no one else was there to do it for him.

No one had pulled covers up to his chin for a long time. No one had taken all his burdens on their shoulders so he could rest for a long time. But there Derek was, in his kitchen, exasperated and at a loss, and somehow managing to be everything that Stiles needed right now, to be okay again. 

“You’re doing it wrong. Here. Gimme.” Derek actually looked happy to see him, and he handed off the baby dragon and the bottle with so much relief that Stiles almost laughed. Puff was ecstatic. He sounded like the entire reptile house at the zoo, all hisses and the soft rustling of scales. “I missed you too, kiddo.” Stiles managed to get out through the thickness in his throat, the part of him that wanted to collapse into Derek’s arms and make him promise that it would always be this way. He got the next best thing. 

Derek’s hand landed on his shoulder, a grounding, firm weight, there only for a moment before it was removed. “No one taught me how to feed a dragon in Home Ec. They did, however teach me how to make pancakes.” The question in his voice was clear, and Stiles’ responding smile was blinding.

“Put in chocolate chips.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douse all the heavy emotions with whipped cream and chocolate chip pancakes. Makes it so much better.

Observing a werewolf in his natural habitat. How many humans could say that they had that privilege, huh? It was an anthropologists dream. And here Stiles was living it. One would think that there would be a lot more blood and teeth and ripping and maybe human flesh thrown in for effect. Gore and gnashing fangs and blood dripping out of the werewolf’s gaping maw.

But what did Stiles get? A werewolf with table manners. Derek used a fork and a knife. He cut his pancakes into perfect bite sized pieces, and nibbled on them delicately, in a fashion that reminded Stiles of the old Victorian days, where propriety reigned high. One would think that a werewolf would eat like a rabid monster. Derek ate like he was at his coming out cotillion, entering proper society. Stiles was having none of it.

He knew the proper way to consume pancakes. Spray whipped cream in the middle, fold it up, and eat it like a delicious, delicious pancake sandwich. By the time Stiles was done devouring, his face was covered in flecks of chocolate and cream, and he looked more animal than the actual monster in the room. Even poor Puff had been affected. 

Puff, as always, had the best seat in the house. Stiles’ lap. And that meant when Stiles was eating- or, as Derek would say, with an arched eyebrow and horrified eyes, ‘Savagely massacring a perfectly good breakfast’ sometimes, he got caught in the crossfire. Sometimes, Stiles couldn’t catch all the whipped cream, and Puff ended up with a dollop right on his snout.

It was so adorable Stiles could burst into tears. Especially when Puff went cross eyed trying to catch a glimpse of the unfamiliar substance slowly melting on his scales. Luckily, Derek had experience with this kind of thing. After all, he’d had to deal with an entire pack of teenagers turned animals, with the appetites of wolves. Derek knew how to handle a mess. Even the messes of epic proportions Stiles left behind.

It was kind of impressive, actually. The way Derek whipped out a rag that, apparently, had taken up residence in his back pocket, and gently scrubbed the cream off of Puff’s face, much to Stiles’ disappointment. He hadn’t even gotten to take a picture. But before he could protest, that same rag had moved onto him. 

Under the gentle ministrations of Derek and his hand towel, Stiles eventually stopped looking like the cookie monster after a bad binge, emerging from his scrubbing looking like a real boy again. No trace of chocolate left on him. But Derek was still close. Still looking at him, Still rubbing the towel over his cheek. But Stiles felt the heat of Derek’s hand, even through the fabric.

He could feel how gentle Derek’s fingers were when they moved over the curve of his jaw. How they paused over his lips. Automatically, he swept his tongue over said lips, trying to erase all traces of his attack on Derek’s delicious pancakes. He was clean. Derek didn’t stop smoothing the rag over him. He was just below his jaw now. His face was so close. Stiles could smell the chocolate on his breath.

Suddenly, he wondered what it would be like, to taste that. Wondered how it would feel if Derek just tilted his chin up, and kissed him, tasting of breakfast and morning breath. For a moment, a small, weak moment, Stiles thought that would be the most wonderful thing in the world. Because Derek- He was beautiful. He was beautiful, and he was there. Right in front of Stiles, his eyes never moving away from Stiles. And Stiles wanted.

No one would blame him. How could they? Derek had eyes like a forest. Sometimes his eyes were the green of the tress and the moss. Sometimes blue flowed through them like a creek. Sometimes there was a streak of brown, like the heavy, rich soil and the rough bark of the oaks. Derek had it all, in his eyes. And Stiles felt lost in them. Lost in the forest, with no trail of breadcrumbs laid out to lead him home.

He was leaning forward. Derek was so close. The towel was rough, dipping down to his throat. So close- And then there was a strong chirrup, and a devil of a dracling rearing up between them and craning his serpentine neck up to brush against Stiles affectionately, but urgently. 

Immediately Stiles was overtaken by guilt, and horror, and shock and- well. We won’t mention the residual arousal. He’d ignored his kid. What kind of parent was he, trying to get it on with a baby in his lap. He was a monster. Oh, God, he was going to hell. A special hell for dragon daddies who had bad kissy thoughts about their werewolf buddy. He was doomed.

 

Consumed by both guilt and paternal concern, Stiles put on his baby face, lifting Puff up into his arms, and completely ignoring Derek, and the blush rising high on his cheeks and reddening the tips of his ears. “Hey, what is it, kiddo? You just ate, so I know you’re not hungry- what’s up?

Despite Derek’s raised eyebrow and smirk at Stiles’ crooning, Stiles continued coddling his dragon, stroking a scaly back, and cuddling him close, completely cutting Derek out of the picture. Until, of course, Derek chose now to decide to use his big boy words, instead of staying a silent watcher in the night. Which was both totally creepy, and had saved his life on multiple occasions.

“He just wants your attention.” Derek said, and there was almost a smug ring to it. Before Stiles knew it, and before he could object, Derek was closer. So closer Stiles could feel his body heat, could see the rise and fall of the man’s chest, and since when did the way that an eyebrow arched become so damn fascinating to Stiles? He snapped out of his little Derek induced daze faster this time, quickly realizing that Puff was the only barrier between them. And like any true warrior, courageous and strong- he hid behind the tiny dragon.

There was no other way to say it. He was using Puff as a shield so he didn’t have to concentrate on the way Derek’s shirt rucked up around his hip and showed just a sliver of tanned skin. So, as Hellsing raised a cross to ward off vampires, Stiles clutched a terrier sized dragon to his chest, like that would protect him from his attraction to Derek.

He’d been attracted to guys before. It wasn’t like this was new. Stiles had always appreciated the fine lines of Danny’s abs in the locker room, his eyes trailing down smooth planes of skin. One of his best kept secrets was that, once, when completely smashed on stolen whiskey, he’d smacked a sloppy kiss on Scott’s lips. It was the grossest thing ever. They both vowed never to speak of it again. So he shouldn’t be surprised that he was attracted to Derek hale, Supermodel quality hot, and strangely, somehow- Stiles’ friend.

Yes, Stiles decided. It was totally normal to be attracted to Derek. It was just like that night with Scott. He was misdirecting his affection because he was lonely and wanted to feel loved. And maybe getting a decent sleep had done more harm than good, and wired him wrong, until he thought he actually had a chance with Derek, who was so far out of his league he might as well be chatting with Lydia in the Majors while Stiles warmed a bench in the Minors, pitifully.

Misdirected affection. That was the cause of all this. Stiles wanted to love and be loved, and he needed to focus that energy on someone before he pounced on Derek Hale and got his head busted through the floor of Derek’s loft. So what was he to do? Smother a little dragon in affection. He hugged, he kissed, he snuggled, until poor Puff was trying to wriggle away from Stiles’ overbearing smothering. 

 

“Enough, Stiles.” Was he insane, or was there an edge of laughter to Derek’s voice? “Give him to me, before you actually kill him with kindness.” 

Glaring and holding Puff close, Stiles shook his head stubbornly. “He’s my dragon, not yours, and there is no such thing as too much love. He needs it. Do you know that babies die if no one holds them? They die, Derek. Probably of a broken heart. Do you want that for Puff?” A smacking kiss on the wonky spike on Puff’s back. It was just ever so slightly out of place, compared to the others. Stiles thought it was one of Puff’s best features.

“I want the poor thing to survive you, is what I want.” 

“Funny, just a few weeks ago, you wanted him dead.” There was a definite edge of challenge in Stiles’ voice, and he was braced, tense, expecting Derek to retaliate in kind. Instead, Derek stepped closer again, and scooped his arms around Puff, until they were both holding him, tangled up in limbs, keeping the dragon aloft and steady. Stiles couldn’t look at Derek. Not when he still felt electricity every time that their arms brushed.

 

“I wanted to protect my pack, Stiles.” He sounded so earnest. It almost made all of Stiles’ defenses crumble pitifully, into dust. Almost.”

 

“You wanted to hurt him. You still would, if he was a threat.” Derek would do anything to make sure that he didn’t lose the people he held dear. Because he’d lost so much already. Stiles could only imagine the desperation. The absolute need, to keep the few remaining people you had safe and alive and well and there with you. Derek was clinging to them. And he’d defend them as viciously as a wolf protecting their cubs. Stiles knew that. 

But Stiles also knew the softer side of Derek. The Derek that scooped a hand under Puff’s neck to support his head, like he was a real baby, tender and human and vulnerable, instead of a spiked scaled thing, a dragon, a weapon, a threat, growing into something dangerous. No. Derek didn’t touch him like he was a dragon. He held him. He tried his damnedest to feed him. He was there for him. 

“I would.” Derek’s voice was soft and rough. “But he’s not a threat, Stiles. Not like this. Like this- he’s pack.” 

Stiles knew what that meant to Derek. He knew the heavy connotations the word ‘pack’ carried. It wasn’t just a group of animals, allied against the cold cruel world, together only because they needed each other to survive. Pack wasn’t supposed to be like that. Stiles knew that Pack, for Derek, wasn’t like that. It was family. It was fighting side by side, back to back. Always having someone at your side to save you. And not just in battle.

Pack meant the people that left tea on your bedside table when your eyes were red and gritty because life was hard and you didn’t know if you could get through it. Pack was a hand on your shoulder, tethering you to this life, when everything was crumbling. That was Derek’s definition of Pack, and Stiles knew it. Derek would give his life for his pack. Give anything for them. And he’d accepted Puff into his heart. It tore at Stiles’ heart like a wolf’s claws.

He let go. Much to Derek’s obvious shock, as Puff ended up in his arms alone, curling close to body heat, his tail thrashing and his little claws digging into Derek’s bicep, hard enough to leave a small pink line, but never hard enough to break skin, as if the dragon knew that Derek didn’t have the protective scales to protect against things like tiny needle claws from a hatchling dragon.

Stiles wanted to be the favorite. Of course he did. He wanted to be the one that Puff loved unconditionally. He wanted to be the one that Puff loved above all. He wanted that, wanted to be special. And it was hard, to give his dragon to anyone else, to allow the possibility that Puff might get attached to them, and decide that skinny, sarcastic Stiles just wasn’t worth it, not with actual supernatural creatures around. He had his pick of the litter.

But Derek- It was okay, if Puff liked Derek a little bit. Because Stiles was starting to realize that he liked Derek too. Beyond his obvious appreciation of the body he had, which was most definitely carved out by the Gods. He trusted Derek. Even with something as precious as Puff. And Puff was completely on board with the plan, curling around Derek like he was trying to tie him up and keep him there.

 

Jealousy curled up in his gut, seeing Puff all over someone else, eyes closed and tongue flicking out every so often, soft hisses permeating the air. Puff was happy. Stiles wanted to be the only one to make him that happy, but he wasn’t. And after shoving that jealousy deep into a box and far away- he was okay with it.

And it was definitely cute. Tenderness welled up in him, overwhelming everything else. Derek was stroking down Puffs spines, looking totally at a loss of what to do with a dragon. His eyes were wide, his eyebrows furrowed, his mouth tight and puckered slightly. He was trying so damn hard to be the perfect perch for Stiles’ overgrown lizard. Stiles’ had never felt more connected to him.

Because now Derek seemed normal. He wasn’t all hard, tough, big bad. He was just a nervous wreck like everyone else, trying to figure things out as they went along. “Stiles, just because I accepted him into the pack, doesn’t mean I’m going to be his living breathing furniture. Get him off.” As if he wasn’t totally enjoying this. The unadulterated attention only really young things could give. Stiles saw right through Derek’s bravado and a shit eating grin spread over his face. 

“What was that? You don’t want to hold him?” Stiles backed away, so Derek would have a much harder time foisting the dragon off on him. “You don’t want to keep him forever while I go live the normal high school student life, instead of starring on Supernatural Teen Dad?”

“And if I left- just flew the coop and left him with you, you wouldn’t want to be Daddy Derek?” Derek looked downright murderous now, even though he had to know Stiles was teasing. As if he’d ever give up Puff to another person. The day he did that was the day he booked a ski trip in Hell.

 

“It’s a good idea.” Derek said finally, his face switching from ‘I’ll stab you with a rusty spork and scoop up your insides’ to a self satisfied twitch at the corner of his lips. A prelude to that smirking, triumphant smile he always got when he won. “I’ll keep him here. After all, when he gets big you won’t have the room. And how, exactly are you planning on explaining a dragon to your dad? Who knows how much Puff here-“ He patted the little dragon to emphasize his point. Puff had been the size of a beanie baby just three weeks ago, and now he was the size of a small dog. He really was growing.

“Is going to grow? He needs his space. I’m rebuilding my house. Lot of forest there. Good cover for something- inhuman.”

Derek had a good point, and Stiles hated it. Derek was right. He couldn’t provide everything that Puff needed. Sure it was alright now, when he was just nearly a month old, and being cooped up in a teenagers room was normal. But what happened when he grew. When he wanted to explore. Stiles couldn’t give that to him. Derek could.

He knew that Derek was just trying to get under his skin. Trying to get Stiles back. Probably wasn’t even serious. He wouldn’t want a dragon anyway he hated being near danger- didn’t he? Great. He was delusional. Derek and danger went hand in hand.

But Stiles didn’t want to let go. So he swooped in on them both, cradling Puff just the way Derek had, when he was assuring Stiles that Puff had been accepted into his pack. “You can’t take him away from me.”

There was a vulnerability in his voice. But also a core of steel, that rang true. Stiles would fight to the death to keep that baby lizard with him. Lucky for Derek, he softened quickly. There was no need for Stiles to open a can of magic whoop ass on anyone, because Derek was nodding, and sharing the hold of Puff again, deferring to Stiles.

“Can’t separate a kid from his parent. Just wrong,” But then he turned serious, and he jostled them, getting a hand free so he could curl his fingers around Stiles’ bicep, looking into his eyes in a way that was so piercing Stiles thought he felt the gaze go right through his bones. “But you can come here. When you need to. You can always come here. The both of you. You’re welcome here. Any time. For as long as you need.”

Stiles knew an offer when he heard it. And it was a good one. Derek had all the resources that Stiles didn’t. He was a real adult. Settled. Independent. Long story short, he could handle his shit. Stiles still played with action figures sometimes. He was a kid that had dived into parenting without much forethought. And Derek was offering sanctuary.

“When he’s older. When I can’t hide him from Dad anymore.” Stiles hated lying to his dad. He knew about the supernatural, yes. And he tolerated it as best he could. But having it in his house was where he drew the line. Unless it was Scott, John Stilinski did not welcome many supernatural things into his home. And if he found out Stiles was raising a dragon of all things- Stiles would be more grounded than Rapunzel. And he was ready to bet that his prison tower wouldn’t come with a Prince to save him. It would just come with several ‘I’m so disappointed in you, Stiles’ speeches. Stiles hated those speeches. They hurt.

He didn’t mean to be a disappointment. He didn’t mean to be the bad kid. The one that always got into trouble.The one that turned their father’s hair prematurely grey.The bother.The burden. He knew that every time he left the house to go kill a harpy- or whatever creature of the week was, his father got one more wrinkle on his face. He knew that every time he came home with bruises and a split lip, his father would be walking a little more slowly, like every stepped pained him. Like an old man. Like Stiles had stressed all the youth out of him. Stiles hated that that was what he was to his father.

But there was nothing he could do about it. He had pack. He had responsibilities. Puff. Keep the town safe. Keep your friends safe. Save the world, eventually, because he was pretty sure that that was where all their vigilante justice was leading. Eventually, they’d be saving the world from something. But for now, it was his job to be part of the pack that protected Beacon Hills. 

Snatching Puff back, and backing away slightly, Stiles drew away far. Derek was having none of it. He invaded his space, pressed forward, never let Stiles retreat into himself. “When he’s older.” Derek said, and his voice didn’t shake like Stiles’ did. “And whenever you need.”

“What if I need it now?” Stiles asked, demanding. “What if I needed to stay now, and I needed you to help me keep this kid on the right track.. What if I eat all the food in your fridge and leave abut imprint n your couch and use all the toilet paper and not leave another Roll, what if I-“

Shut up. Derek always told him to shut up. Usually, not with words. The left eyebrow curved up. The right stayed down, but twitched slightly, as if tempest to raise. And his mouth curled up, in something that looked like disgust. Stiles had learned to read Derek pretty well. The man had already done his fair share of talking today. In fact, he’d been so damn verbal it shocked Stiles. But he didn’t need to say anything right now. Stiles knew. Shut up. He shut up.

 

“Do you not understand English? Whenever you need. I can say it in Spanish, German, French- whatever will make you understand.”

“I failed Spanish.”

“You’re pitiful.” Derek’s voice was lofty, but Stiles still had a smile on his face, and a dragon crawling all over him, as though he was exploring Stiles. A new world, written on the curve on his shoulder and the strong arch of his back,. Stiles allowed Puff to crawl around where he liked, and grinned at Derek. 

“You’re going to regret this.”  
“Oh, Definitely.”  
“Jerk.”


	3. Chapter 3

Derek regretted it. He regretted it the moment Puff’s bed nest, made of blankets and pillows and Puff’s favorite, about five rolls of shredded toilet paper, made it’s way into his bedroom. He regretted it when he woke up to his chest being crushed because, surprise, sometimes even Lizards want to play- at three o clock in the morning. He regretted it because Stiles brought with him a flurry of paper and research and old book smell. He regretted it because now, if they ever left, the madhouse his loft had become would feel so damn empty.

And the best part was Stiles knew it. He wasn’t the only one who loved Puff, now. The rest of the pack was still edgy around the dragon. Especially Lydia, who did not like anything with scales that wasn’t dead, skinned, and on her feet or her arm in the form of shoes and bags. Puff reminded her of the bad times, Stiles knew. Jackson, the Kanimas. And the rest of them didn’t like the slitted eyes and the long tongue and the constant hissing.

But Derek? Stiles had basically trapped him in immersion therapy, and now, the wolf couldn’t help but love the little reptile. It wasn’t obvious at first, what with the glaring, growling, gruff persona Derek put on for everyone. But Stiles was there every part of his day that wasn’t spent at home reassuring his dad that yes, he was alive, and no, it totally wasn’t weird that he was holed up in his room all the time. Normal teenage stuff.

In reality, he was going up to his room, sneaking off with a suspiciously heavy backpack, opened slightly so Puff could breathe, and high tailing it to Derek’s loft like a criminal on the run. And his dad was busy all the time, anyways. This was Beacon Hills. For a small town, it saw enough crime that Brooklyn cops might have trouble here. Stiles was pretty sure his dad loved going to work when his biggest problem was graffiti artists and teenagers egging houses. 

So Stiles was around Derek. A lot. At this point the only person he saw more was Puff, and that was because of his overprotective parent syndrome. If the pudgy little dragon got so much as a foot out of his sight, it made Stiles panic and grab Derek by the collar and demand he use that bloodhound nose of his and ‘Track him, Lassie!’.

Of course, it always turned out that Puff was just rifling through the trash, sniffing at something interesting, or making a nuisance of himself. Derek was going on runs barefoot, because Puff liked to eat his shoes. 

But as further proof that he too adored the slightly less tiny monster, he was also running with Puff. He could say that running with weight was just good exercise sense, but Stiles knew for a fact that he just liked having a toddler sized, fiend riding on his shoulder.

It had come to Stiles’ attention, as well, that as Puff grew, human strength wasn’t enough that Stiles could hold him properly any more. Now, Stiles wasn’t weak. Anyone who had ever said that had met the business end of his fist. But then he usually broke his hand. In conclusion- weak human arms were beginning to interfere with his ability to hold his baby.

But Derek, the bastard, with all his werewolf strength, could hold Puff just fine. In fact, Stiles was pretty sure that he could lift the dragon up over his head, and run super fast, so he could pretend Puff was flapping his wings to fly, instead of just expressing joy at the free werewolf piggy back rides. Stiles was also pretty sure that Derek had done that at least once. In his mind, Derek was humming The Ride of the Valkyries. He was definitely enough of a dork for Wagner.

Whether Derek was strong enough to hold him wouldn’t matter for long, though. Puff was growing up. Sure, Derek could hunt down a deer so that Stiles didn’t fritter away his college fund on lamb- and now, Puff’s teeth could rip and tear and the blender was no longer necessary- but it was becoming clear that this, whatever they were doing, wasn’t working anymore. 

The dragon was getting bigger. He was getting smarter. And he was getting less and less content to just lay in Stiles’ arms and watch tv all day. The dragon wanted to explore and be free, and on more than one occasion, he’d tried to make a jailbreak out the door of the loft when it was opened. Pretty soon, the loft wouldn’t contain him at all. And Stiles didn’t know what to do. What did one do, with a dragon that suddenly wasn’t pocket sized and manageable anymore? 

He knew he should have thought about this sooner, but between the sleepless nights, the constant feedings, the cleaning up after him, the diaper changes, good god- he just hadn’t had time. He hadn’t had time to do research, he hadn’t had time to think, he hadn’t had time to do a damn thing but survive, and keep him and Puff afloat. It wasn’t easy, what he was trying to do. Raise something, keep it from his dad, keep it from the whole world, keep the pack from exterminating him like he was just another creepy crawly of the month. 

It was hard. But now, he had Derek on his side. When Stiles’ dark circles got too dark, there was another pair of arms and eyes to take over. Someone to bring home the bacon- or, as it was, the corpse of a stag. Someone for Stiles to talk to, and snark at, and watch The Walking Dead at all hours of the night with. And now, someone to plan with.

“Deaton?”

“Don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.” Derek’s eyebrows were knitted together so tight Stiles was pretty sure that if he took a crochet hook to those unruly hairs he could make a nice cozy scarf. He threw himself back onto the couch in exasperation, one eye on Puff, who was perfectly content snuffling through the deer pelt Derek had secured for him, and indulging in his newest habit- hiding everything that glittered beneath it.

“You could probably throw him into the sun, Derek. You work out. He might be a total creeper, but he also might be our best bet and finding out what people did with dragons. Y’know. In ye olden days.”

Unimpressed, was too gentle a word for the look Derek gave him. “They killed them, Stiles. With sharp pointy sticks called swords. That’s what they did with them.” Which, okay, point. No one wanted a giant, firebreathing, flying beast terrorizing their town. Pillaging their stock. Running off with their women. Specifically women of the royal variety. But Stiles had gotten mixed reports on that, because apparently, virgins were okay too. Maybe that was why Puff liked Stiles so much. He knew he’d come in useful for more than just Unicorns.

“Leave it to you to be closeminded. That’s just the European version. Chinese dragons were totally zen. And it’s not just them, either. The Aztec’s had Quetzalcoatl, and he was totally a God of wisdom, and a dragon. And the Aboriginal Australians had the Rainbow Serpent which was some kind of creator God-“ 

Stiles was going to wax those eyebrows right off if they arched at him one more time. Or dye them pink. That would show Derek. Miserably, Stiles realized that he’d probably look like a high fashion model, no matter what Stiles did to him. But at least he’d be basically mute, without those eyebrows to communicate. “And in India the Naga was a cobra creature with a thousand fangs that needed to be destroyed. “ He shrugged those stupidly broad shoulders, and Stiles collapsed in on himself in defeat.

“It’s pretty evenly split.” Stiles moaned. “Even if we get into Eastern or Western dragons. Either they’re a plague on humanity or our wise and benevolent rulers. There’s no in between.” Derek nodded, looking just as burned out as Stiles did. “Go make me coffee.” Stiles punctuated his command with a loose flap of his hand. “And make sure Puff doesn’t steal my car keys again while you’re up.”

Miraculously, for once, Derek did as he was asked without a snarky comment, or some very scathing wriggling of his eyebrows. Which only proved that he was just as tired and hopeless and worried as Stiles was. A quick survey of the deer pelt revealed nothing but the usual. Silver gum wrappers, a wrench that was new enough to be shiny, bits and bobs from under the sink that still glimmered. “Myths aren’t always right.” Derek said softly, back on his feet and making a beeline for the creamer.

“Werewolves are different. We’re not monsters. Puff isn’t either.” Stiles warmed up right to his very bones to hear Derek say something like that. Derek, who would rather challenge emotions to a boxing match than ever let them show. But he knew Stiles was freaking out on the inside, and that he’d read every page the internet had on Dragons twice. So he spoke up for him. And he made him coffee. The kind that wasn’t even brown anymore, because it was half cream, leaving it a milky beige that Stiles practically inhaled when Derek transferred the warm mug to his hands.

“Werewolves are also less conspicuous.” Stiles sighed. “What if Puff really does get as big as the myths say he will? How are we supposed to hide something the size of an airplane? Even the Beacon Preserve wouldn’t hide him if he got-“

Unconsciously, Stiles must have been clenching his muscles, because there was a physical change in him when Derek smoothed a hand over his shoulder, warm and firm. Stiles relaxed almost instantly. That was another thing. Derek had been touching him more and more, recently. Stiles theories ranged between him just having gotten used to Stiles, and that maybe Derek needed the touch too. Maybe Stiles wasn’t the only one touch starved, needing the casual affection, constant reassurance that another flesh and blood person was at your side. Real life wolves were tactile with their packmates, after all. Scott had certainly gotten more clingy since he shifted. Just- mostly with his girlfriends, not Stiles.

“If’s and buts. It hasn’t happened yet. Concentrate on what we’re going to do now.” Just over the edge of too tired, Stiles chuckled when Derek said buts- his mind correcting the word into butts, and giving him that much needed comic relief. Immature he may be, but damn it was a welcome relief to be childish instead of parent pretending he was an adult instead of a goofy teenager. He grinned up at Derek, and Derek nodded at him, releasing him.

Tentative, was the only word to Describe Derek’s voice when next he spoke. Tentative and a little wary, as though Stiles was going to shoot him down automatically. Like Stiles didn’t have crazy ideas that included shrinking rays and invisibility cloaks. So Stiles tried his hardest to make his eyes inquiring and open, instead of the all consuming curiosity he actually felt. Along with a strike of apprehension. If Derek, straightforward Derek, was worried about it, what the hell could it be?

“My house.” Well, that wasn’t what Stiles expected. 

“We’re in your house, right now.” He said in confusion. Because this was then loft, the place Derek lived and Stiles visited, and this was – not what Derek was talking about. He was shaking his head, looking just as confused as Stiles.

“My house.” He repeated in a low voice, slowly gaining more and more confidence. “We can rebuild. For real. Not a joke, this time. It’s deep in the woods for a reason. When I was a cub-“ He swallowed like his saliva was sandpaper, and Stiles just barely managed to keep from reaching out for him. Instead he listened. Intently. “I didn’t have control, like I do today. I’d shift all the time. All werewolf pups are like that. So we raise our young somewhere solitary, somewhere humans can’t see us.”

At Stiles offended look, Derek cleared his throat and corrected himself. “Humans who aren’t our packmates.” Stiles gave him a satisfied nod, as encouragement to continue. “I could rebuild it. He’s not too big yet, we can still keep him here for a while- And he loves the woods, Stiles, he’d be out in the open, not hiding all the time, he could learn to hunt his own deer, he could-“ Flushing, Derek broke off. Probably because Stiles was grinning at him rather maniacally.

“Those are probably the most words I’ve heard you speak in ages.” Stiles knew it was the wrong thing to say, by the way Derek shuttered off, went quiet, and still. Obviously he thought Stiles was poking fun at him for getting so enthusiastic about something, instead of remaining his usual sour and silent self. As if. 

Rushing to correct him, Stiles careened forward and wrapped his arms around Derek’s back, squeezing tight. And maybe it lasted a little bit longer than your normal, friendly hug, but he dared anyone else to not cling hard to someone who was willing to literally rebuild a house that had become a graveyard, just so you could keep your nearly sure ticket to a fiery death.

It had occurred to Stiles, while he intruded in Derek’s house, that there might be a reason Derek was so afraid of a creature known for fire and destruction. Puff’s existence made the chances of Derek losing his home to a raging inferno about ten times more likely. And if Puff was there, Stiles would be too. Maybe Scott maybe his dad- Derek must have thought about that. All the loss he was risking. He must have thought about it every time he looked at their scaly little problem. And still, he opened his new home, not just to Stiles, but to Puff. He did that. It made Stiles want to do more than hug him.

Life, however, as bad and confusing as it could get was something Stiles liked having, so he reluctantly let go when he edged too close to the line separating friendly from intimate. “Call a contractor. You and I can’t build a house all by ourselves.” From stunned to relieved, Derek’s face finally molded into something vaguely like contentment. And then exasperation, because he’d sent Stiles off into ideas.

“I want my room on the left- and we have to have soundproof walls, I mean, what if Puff graduates from hisses to roars? Got to be ready. You have more money than God, make it happen. And, I’m thinking like, a huge den so the entire pack can pile in for a movie night, or just bonding time of monopoly- No, scratch that, monopoly will only tear us apart, we’ll play yahtzee-“ He was off and running, excited and chattering in Derek’s ear, still close enough that they were touching, shoulder to thigh, and Derek allowed it, sipping lukewarm coffee and making the appropriate noises of agreement. Until Stiles went silent.

Completely silent. It was such a shock that Stiles could actually see Derek’s mouth open in wonder. Stiles honestly couldn’t tell if he was savoring the moment, thanking whatever God did this for him, or just loading like a frozen computer. His brain might as well be the blue screen of death. But there was no time for that, because Stiles had just realized something horrible. “Derek.” He hissed. “it’s quiet.”

The rule, any good parent, babysitter, sibling, or caregiver knew, was that silence? Silence was worse than a death sentence. Kids made noise. Even good kids, like Puff, who were generally easy enough to entertain, so long as you had cleaned out the dollar bin in the local thrift shop of chew resistant jewelry to satiate a dragon’s hoarding instinct. But even then, there was always that background noise of metal clinking and scales sliding against the fur pelt, and the scrabbling of baby claws against the loft’s cold floors. Stiles had just gotten used to it, like it was white noise, and it was easy enough to talk over it. Until it was gone. 

Horror on both of their faces, they both craned their head around, looking towards the back of the couch, so sluggishly it was like they were in slow motion. Both their eyes were wide. Both of them let out identical sounds of dismay when they saw nothing but scattered shinies and a rumpled deer pelt on the ground. No sign of Puff.

As usual, Stiles promptly lost his fucking mind. “Oh My God, Oh Christ, can you hear him? Can you smell him? Where is he. Puff? Puffster? Cheese puff?” He was up and off the couch like a shot, Derek close behind like a shadow, nostrils flaring. Bedroom first. Sometimes Puff slunk in there to gnaw at Derek’s shoes in the middle of the night, or ruck his blankets and sheets into another nest. Nothing. Bathroom, in case Puff had gone seeking toilet paper. Nada. Kitchen in case Puff was trying to climb into the oven again to soak up warmth- zilch. Zero. Nothing. Stiles was losing his shit.

“He should be here!” Derek snarled, equally as panicked, if his eyebrows and the tight curl to his mouth was anything to go by. “I smell him everywhere why is he not-“

Exactly no patience for Derek’s performance issues, Stiles grabbed him by the shirt, and tried to shake him. It was like trying to shake a tree. Didn’t work. But Stiles liked to think it got the desired effect of scaring the life out of Derek. “Don’t just stand there sniffing, find him! Listen for him, use your- whatever it is you wolves have! You’re supposed to be magic, or something you’ve got to-“ A hand slammed over his mouth. Derek’s hand. Stiles bit it just to be contrary. Derek didn’t even flinch. Damn him

“You have to shut up if you want me to listen.” He growled, low in his throat. And then he went still, completely, like a scenting dog. Stiles would have teased him about it if his entire world wasn’t falling apart and there wasn’t a hand over his mouth. If Derek were an actual canine, Stiles was one hundred percent certain his ears would have been pricked up. It went on for a good minute, with Stiles getting so antsy under Derek’s hand that the man had to use his other one to shove down on Stiles’ shoulder, just to keep him still. As if he could be still, when he was so afraid it felt like he was vibrating out of his skin.

Creases appeared on Derek’s face, deep, and nowhere near encouraging. He was supposed to smile, squeeze Stiles’ shoulder, and nod, tell him that Puff was just playing hide and seek and that he’d found him. He hadn’t said any of that yet. Any time now, Derek, Stiles thought desperately. Tell me he’s okay any time. “I hear him.” A relieved gust of breath that Stiles had been holding whooshed out and between Derek’s fingers. “But there’s something else. It- he doesn’t sound like him. It’s his heartbeat, but-“ 

Something had his baby. That was the only thing Stiles could think in the heat of the moment, and something ugly and roiling rose up in him. For the first time, he realized, how parents felt. How his dad felt every time he was in danger. He was going to hug his father when he got home, and apologize for putting him through this every single day. Because this? This was the worst. The driving, pounding need in his blood to be there for his dragon, to have him in his arms again and hold him there and never let anything in the world so much as give him a paper cut. 

For his pack, Stiles would destroy worlds. For his family, Stiles would destroy himself. For Puff? Defenseless baby Puff, with his sweet hissing, and the excited flaps of his wings, and his clean baby and sulfur scent, Stiles would gladly destroy entire realities and universes. His magic was up, thrumming through his blood. His hair was standing on end, crackling and waving as though fused with static electricity. He was one big conduit, full to the brim and ready to burst, ready to explode, ready to tear the world apart until he found who he was looking for. 

And Derek noticed. Stiles had never been good at magic. He was clumsy, he was human, and he was ruled by emotion. He’d never quite been able to separate magic from his soul. But that meant that when his soul was feeling threatened, his magic flew into him, making him swell with it, like a balloon. Or a bomb. He felt like he could fly, he could fight, he could do anything, if only Derek would let go.

Derek didn’t. He kept his hold on him. It was like putting a rock on paper. Stiles could overpower him. He felt that in his bones. He could grow sharp and terrifying and deadly, and wrench Derek off him easily, if he just let everything inside him out. But it was Derek. Derek wasn’t going to hurt Puff, he wasn’t going to hurt Stiles. He was going to help. He always helped. He was rough and he was mean and he sometimes beat Stiles at the sarcasm game, and Stiles wouldn’t hurt him for the world. Not even for Puff. 

Eons had gone by. But then, Derek finally let Stiles go. And before he could open his mouth to ask if Derek had given up, if Puff was gone, if something had happened, if he could smell blood if they should go after him, what they should do, or any of the other hundred thousand questions pushing at his mind to be released, Derek cut him off. Pointed to the ceiling. Stiles followed his finger immediately. And there, above their heads, with what must be the smuggest, most proud grin a Dragon could make, was Puff.

Apparently, all that wing flapping wasn’t in vain. Because as small and flimsy as those things looked, they were keeping Puff in the air. Sure, he was dipping and bobbing and struggling to stay up, chirping and whistling and making a cacophony of dragon sounds, now that Stiles had finally noticed his triumph. Stiles had thought that when this finally happened, if it happened at all, Puff would start off just a few feet off the ground, just learning, slow and easy, and not terrifying Stiles by disappearing completely, over their heads the entire time.

No wonder it had thrown Derek off. There was a subtle whoosh of air circulating under surprisingly strong wings, and with Derek’s hearing, it must have sounded so strange, and unlike Puff. But there his dragon was. Flying. Stiles didn’t even have his phone, to take a picture. Puff had obviously taken the bird route, and just decided that today was the day he flew. And he soared.

He slumped against Derek, still shaking a little bit, and then gathered himself, opened up his arms, and trying to coax Puff down from there. “C’mere cream puff. Come to daddy.” And after wiggling fingers, and eventually a gold necklace to tempt him, Puff did, indeed, alight down into Stiles’ arms, where he promptly had the air squeezed out of him in a hug. And, as what Stiles could only hope was the last surprise of the day, Derek too, joined in, putting his arms around the both of them, and sighing. It was a beleaguered sound that Stiles automatically registered as: ‘of all the families, I chose this one. Why me.’ Derek was as relieved as him.

“You gave us such a shock, Puff, you can’t just do that to me-“ 

“Da.” What was that Stiles had said, about the last surprise of the day? Why had he jinxed himself like that? He knew that you were never supposed to say stuff like that in a universe that delighted in proving you wrong and messing with your head, damn it. He knew. And yet, here it was. It was a croaking, rough, sibilant sound, but very, very clearly, a word. “Da.” Puff was obviously straining to keep going, like there was more. 

As a man who was just so used to weird shit that he’d learned to roll with it every time it happened- Stiles gave up. He just gave up on being flabbergasted and in awe and thinking about what this meant, and he just went with it. “Daddy?” He asked hopefully. “Are you trying to say daddy?” 

“Derek?” The traitorous werewolf himself chimed in, almost as hopeful, and almost as resigned to the fact that weird, crazy shit would always happen to them. And Stiles shot him a glare accordingly. As if to say ‘back off. My dragon, I should be the first word, not you’. But no. As if anything could be that easy. 

“Dany.” Danny? At first the both of them looked at each other, trying to figure out when the hell Puff had met their human hacker extraordinaire, who was suspiciously well informed on the goings on of Beacon hills- but then, like a freight train, it hit them, and they both groaned. Who had Stiles raised Puff to think of as a role model? Not him. Not Derek. Danaerys Targaryen, Khalessi, the unburnt, the mother of dragons, the breaker of chains, so on and so forth, blah blah blah, etcetera. Also called- You guessed it. Dany. 

“You should never have introduced him to Game of Thrones.”

“Upstaged by a tv character.” Stiles agreed miserably.

“Could be worse. He could like the Lannisters.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles hates surprises, dirty underwear, emotional talks- and most of all, he hates party crashers.

So Game of Thrones was wrong. Stiles never saw that coming. Puff wasn't a crazed, man eating dinosaur with wings. He was just your average, every day toddler. Except, you know, covered in scales. Babbling about everything in things that weren't quite words, but amalgamations of consonants, vowels, and the crackling hiss that seemed to be a Dragon version of a baby's burbles. 

And it wasn't only the babbling. Oh no. It was the flying. Flying that made it damn near impossible for Stiles to keep track of him. He was prone to zipping around, from room to room. Stiles was considering buying him a bell. Or a leash. Anything so that every day wasn't a scavenger hunt entitled 'Where the hell did the baby disappear to this time'. Stiles' hands were so full that he was dropping things. Luckily, Derek Hale was there to pick them up.

They'd worked into a routine. Derek was the one who dragged Puff down from the rafters and located him when he disappeared into thin air, and Stiles- Stiles was the one who dealt with the talking. 

"It's my worst nightmare." Derek moaned pitifully, after the thousandth refrain of 'Dany', said in everything from chirrups to whistles, to hissing, to a loud, almost human voice. "He took after your side of the family."

It was true. Puff did, indeed, take after Stiles. Between the hyperactivity and the constant talking, Stiles had a newfound appreciation for everyone who put up with him. He didn't know how they did it. Probably the same way he put up with his little- or, now, not so little- beastie. Love and a lot of babysitters.

Sick of being the only werewolf around to keep an ear on Puff, Derek had dragged the pack in by the scruff of their necks, and demanded that they do their part. After all, he was busy now, rebuilding. The contractor was only human, after all, and seeing as Derek could get twice what did did in a day done in a matter of hours- it was simply easier to pick up a few books on architecture than it was to keep paying the man a King's ransom. Stiles could tell it was good for Derek, too. Having a project to concentrate on. Summer in California made for beautiful working conditions, and often, the werewolf would stay out, heaving lumber, pushing in nails with his thumb, and placing tiles, until Stiles rang, moaning the woes of single parenthood into Derek's ear.

Their routine was getting easier and easier as they days went by. Derek worked on the house, Stiles stayed with Puff, played some video games, kept to the house ban on Game of Thrones, practiced magic- he slid back into the life of a relatively normal teenager. And their door, or, more accurately, Derek's door, that Stiles had appropriated to use as his, too, was constantly open. Because at different points throughout the day, different pack members would drop by.

Scott would pop in after his morning run, with one of the books he read to 'expand his mental horizons', like Call of the Wild, or, as of now- Balto. He'd play with Puff like he was one of the puppies from the Vet's office, bringing treats that Stiles forbade him to ever get near Puff, and toys of the shiny variety that were, inevitably, either taken for the hoard or torn to shreds. Then, he was off to get back to his actual animal charges, leaving Stiles alone for about an hour, before Lydia took her shift. 

Lydia was surprisingly good with Puff. In fact, Stiles secretly, wickedly, titled her the 'Snake Charmer', seeing as all things scaled and reptilian seemed to adore her. Stiles was fairly certain that if she gave Puff a bat of the eyes, he'd gladly lie down to become a pair of snakeskin boots. When Stiles mentioned his suspicions, Lydia waved him off dismissively, scratching behind Puff's jagged scales with scarlet nails, a gleam in her eye. She then informed him that Puff was very likely to shed his lovely skin, while growing into a new and improved scale suit. And when he did, she had already claimed first dibs.

Soon, she too was gone, much to Puff's misery, leaving only a cloud of delectable perfume to remember her by. And then it was Isaac shuffling in, hands in his pockets, back hunched defensively. He was definitely more Derek's friend than Stiles, but, they'd bonded over a similar love of bitching about people. People who's names were Derek Hale and Scott McCall. The gossip and snark went on for entire episodes of Breaking Bad, and two bags of Sour Cream and Onion chips. And for all the snickering, they talked about both men with equal affection, until it was time for Isaac to slink off, usually with whatever leftovers Stiles had in the fridge, and big warm hug. God knew the poor ball of angst needed one.

Around that time of day, it was always time for Derek to learn what ringtone Stiles had programmed into his phone in the middle of the night. 'Who's afraid of the Big Bad, Wolf'? 'Hey there little Red Riding Hood'? Or Stiles' personal favorite 'Winter is coming', said not in the deep, rumbling voice of Ned Stark, but in the dramatic tones of Stiles himself. And from then on, it was easy.

Complain enough at Derek to get him home, and he'd always bring food. Something from the forest around his house for Puff. Something from the diner on his way home for him and Stiles. And if he didn't bring take away, you could bet your ass that when he came home he'd go right for the fridge, because he'd been thinking of making something for dinner all day. They'd eat together, catch up on Puff's antics of the day, watch a movie after the dishes. Family time.

Which was becoming a problem. A big problem. Because Stiles was starting to consider Derek more his family than his actual flesh and blood. Sometimes, he could hardly remember the last time he'd been home. And every time he did, it felt strange. To be in his own bed. His room was both too crowded with him, and a swiftly growing dragon, and too empty, without everyone else. 

Sometimes his Dad asked where he'd been. They'd had more than one family meeting about it. It had been all yelling, and accusations, and Stiles had just kept lying. Because it was so much easier than telling the truth. When he told the truth, his dad automatically tried to protect him from it. There were werewolves in the world? Well, Stiles, you're not getting anywhere near those anymore. Something killing people one by one? Damn it, Son, it's my job to take care of that, not yours. John Stilinski just didn't understand that it was already done.

Stiles was already part of this nightmare world. He couldn't change it. He couldn't fix it. He couldn't go back to being the kid his dad knew. He couldn't go back to being mischievous and innocent, his biggest concern being when Lydia Martin would ever agree to go on a date with him. That wasn't him, anymore. But his dad couldn't let go of the little boy he'd had, and accept that that little boy had been through hell and back, and it had forced him to grow up. To become tough and strong, and to not need his father so much anymore.

But that didn't mean he didn't need him at all. Grown up, magic badass he might be- but he was still a boy. And sometimes, a boy just needs his dad. Sucks, when that dad just isn't there. 

Sometimes Stiles thought it was his fault. That he'd driven his dad away by being as difficult as he was. He lied, he snuck out all the time, came home with bruises that got them into a shouting match- of course his dad wouldn't want to deal with a kid like that. Made him wonder how the hell he was going to raise Puff to be a good kid, when he couldn't even keep his own family together any more.

He didn't know if it was because he was transparent as a window when he was worried about something, or if it was because Derek just knew him that well, but, eventually, the werewolf caught on. It was late that night, with Puff already curled up and snoring on his ever growing nest, piled high with an assortment of glittering objects and shreds of toilet paper and the cotton filling that had used to belong to Derek's favorite pillows. Stiles was looking at his phone, like any second it would catch fire in his hands and he'd have to toss it like a grenade. In the beginning of all this, sometimes, his dad had called him. Asked where he was. Sometimes Stiles had been the one to call, to lie some more about a sleepover at Scott's, or something else made up in a rush while he buried himself into Derek's couch.

"Go home, Stiles."

For a second, it didn't even compute. Because Stiles didn't register himself as away from home. Not when he was at Derek's. This was his place too. His shirts were strewn across the floor, a dollop of his toothpaste was clinging to the sink. His computer was currently charging on Derek's desk. But the look on Derek's face- concerned and stern and encouraging, gave it away. 

"It's fine. He won't notice I'm gone. He's always so tired after work, he'll just want a beer, and bed." Just one beer, if Stiles was lucky. But how should he know. He hadn't been around to make sure that beer was the hardest booze they had in the house. He hadn't been around to tuck his dad into bed after a hard night. He didn't even know if his dad was keeping to his diet. Puff had taken over his life. And his dad didn't even know about him. 

He must have looked truly awful, looking at Derek helplessly, begging him to tell him how to fix this, to make things better again. He wanted Derek to tell him how to glue the pieces of his family back together. And Derek did.

"Go home, Stiles. Make your father some dinner. Tell him the truth. Talk it out. Me and Puff will be fine. It's only one night, without you."

If Stiles had been anything more than completely drained, and tired, and just looking for a way out of this- he'd have argued. He'd have bitten out cruel, angry words, demanding to know why his dad didn't check in anymore, how it was his fault, how Stiles was the kid, why did he have to be the one to make things better again, wasn't that a parent's job? Wasn't his dad supposed to make things all better, for once? But Derek was right. Pride didn't come before love. He went home.

His dad was on the couch. There wasn't a beer in sight. But there was a half eaten jelly doughnut that Stiles immediately confiscated. And then there weren't many words. Just his dad holding him, and Stiles' eyes wet, and finally, things were getting better between them.

The morning after, when Stiles told his dad about Puff went about as well as could be expected. His dad thought he was just as crazy as everyone else had. But, like everyone else, he was suckered into loving Puff by big golden eyes and a constant stream of 'Dany, Dany, Dany'. And then his dad was added to their daily routine. Stiles spent weekends at home, with his dad, and checked in every day, morning and night. If he couldn't leave the loft, his dad dropped by himself. 

They even had dinner together, sometimes. Derek included. It had been the most awkward thing Stiles had ever experienced, the first few times. Derek hadn't said a word, his dad's disapproval and exasperation had been palpable, and Stiles had to keep the conversation going all on his own. He'd even resorted to talking about the weather. Stiles Stilinski, so at a loss for words, that the weather was a viable topic. 

Eventually, though, they'd figured it out. Now his dad and Derek watched the game together, and they always had something to say about Stiles. How he had to sleep more, how he was too scrawny, how he needed to concentrate on school when the summer ended- It was awful. It was amazing. Stiles got what he wanted. A whole family.

Before the Werewolf Fiasco, things had been a little lonely. All Stiles had was his dad, and Scott. Now, there was always someone around, cooing over Puff, letting Stiles feed and fuss over them- he had a big, boisterous family, just like he'd always wanted. And with that big and boisterous family, Stiles truly learned the meaning of a cramped household. 

"I don't even know who's underwear these are. This can't be sanitary." He moaned, poking at said underwear with a fork, trying to debate whether he should actually wash it, or burn it. 

"Scott's. He brought Laundry over, remember? Puff must have gotten into the hamper again."

A new favorite pastime of a certain baby dragon's was to burrow deep into the dirty clothes, and refuse to come out, even when Stiles threatened to wash him with the other whites. Which he had come far too close to actually doing, the first time Puff had done it. Puff had actually been inside the washer before Stiles had realized that one of the t-shirts were moving. 

"You pick it up." Stiles ordered, staring at it in horror. "I can't touch Scott's Underroos." 

That was the story of how Derek tore Scott's underwear to shreds, accidentally, because he'd picked it up with his claws, so he didn't actually have to touch it, without knowing quite how sharp they were, or quite how fragile cotton could be. 

The bathroom was always occupied, the food was always gone, the loft was a complete wreck, full to bursting with the combined belongings of an entire pack- So it was cause for a celebration when Derek finally, finally, after weeks upon agonizing weeks- rebuilt the house. Running water. Sanded floors that didn't have the risk of cracking under your feet and leaving you plummeting to your doom. And it only smelt of wood and fresh paint on the walls, not a single lingering note of charcoal or smoke. It was a beautiful thing to behold. 

Outfitted properly with beds and chairs and couches, a flatscreen TV in the den, and a kitchen that Stiles could cook up a storm in, if he actually learned how to cook- it looked like an actual home. No longer a husk of one, but a real, honest to God, home. Their home. Stiles had never been more proud of Derek in his life, and he told him so, several times, as they smuggled Puff through the forest, to bring him home. 

"I mean- It's great, Derek. It's just great. I know it must have been tough, but that place is amazing! It looks like one of those McMansions I used to drive by, and dream of living in, even though I didn't have two cents to my name. Dude, imagine. Now I'm gonna live in a mansion. I'm really rising up in the world." 

Stiles' chatter was cut short by Derek opening the door, and Stiles released Puff from his arms, letting the dragon gambol around his new home. "You closed all the windows?"

"Yes Stiles." 

"And he can't get out through any of the doors." 

"No Stiles."

"And you did remember to babyproof the house, right? No powertools he could hurt himself on? Nothing he could swallow and choke on? Oh my God, what if he falls down the stairs." 

"Stiles." 

"Yeah, I know, 'Shut up, Stiles'. Don't put your hand on my mouth. Derek Hale, don't you dare. I'll lick you, I swear. All my spit. Drool all over your-" Stiles' lips couldn't move anymore, not now that Derek had clamped a great, big, traitorous paw over his mouth. As promised, he licked it, over and over again, laughing at the disgust on Derek's face. 

Then he was trying to pull the hand of, and, when he failed, he used the benefit of surprise, and tackled the werewolf right to the floor, laughing at the complete and utter shock on the other male's face. It was like he'd never even consider that Stiles could fight back against the Great and Mighty Derek Hale. But all those days of chasing around after Puff, heaving Puff over his shoulder, and practicing magic just in case another Creepy Crawly found it's way to Beacon Hills had paid off. 

"Who's the Big Bad now?" He asked smugly. Unfortunately, he couldn't gloat any more, because the wind was knocked out of his lungs when Derek reversed their positions, so that it was Stiles, trapped on the cold floor, underneath a very broad, very warm, werewolf. Oh. Oh my. 

"Can you hear Puff?" Was that really his voice? Shit, it was so rough. He swallowed thickly, trying to clear his throat, looking up at Derek with wide eyes. 

"I hear him. He's fine." At least it wasn't only him. Derek's voice was rough too. Rough, and deep, and man, was that sexy. Stiles was a seventeen year old, red blooded male, under a specimen of man so fine he should probably be studied by scientists, so they could figure out how the hell genes could combine so damn perfectly, and turn into someone so gorgeous. Then again. It was probably supernatural. Supernatural abs, supernatural eyes, supernatural mouth- Oh, God. Derek's mouth. It was so close.

So close, so perfect, so familiar- Derek, was familiar. From his scent down to the pressure of his hands, he was familiar. Stiles had never known anyone half so well as he knew Derek, now. And he wanted to kiss him. He was going to kiss him. He was leaning in, Derek's breath warm over his lips, like a ghost of the kiss that he wanted so badly. Derek's scruff was tickling his chin. His chest was pressed so close to Stiles that Stiles could feel his heart beating. Stiles could count the colors in his eyes now. He could see every single hair in his eyebrows. 

So close. So very close- "Hey, Guys! We're here for the housewarming party!" 

Never in his life had Stiles moved so fast. He was pretty sure he rivaled werewolf speed. In fact, he knew he rivaled werewolf speed, because he was moving just as fast as Derek, who had leaped off of him like he was covered in porcupine spikes and Derek had just been pricked. They were on opposite sides of the room in seconds. 

Scott, oblivious as ever, was standing in the doorway, party platter in hand. "It's a good thing we're early. One day in the new house and you two are at each other's throats already." Scott clucked his tongue in disapproval, and strode inside, obviously having mistaken the near kiss for a down and out werewolf on human wrestling match. But one look at Lydia and the others told Stiles that they, at least, weren't fooled for a second.

Lydia was grinning so wide that he could see every single one of her teeth, all straight and white, like a tiny little row of Republicans. Isaac was gaping in dismay, like the earth had just stopped turning. Well. At least his dad wasn't here. Small blessings. 

"Scotty!" Voice too high and obviously desperate to get everyone's mind off the fact that Derek Hale had just been on top of him, not five seconds ago, Stiles practically ran over to his friend, clasping him on the shoulder, and herding him towards the kitchen. "Let's go, um, put the food on the table. Looks delicious. Krogers? Walmart? Who cares, I love those little sausages-" Lydia was practically shaking with laughter, and the sole reason no one else was talking seemed to be because Derek was glaring them into submission. "Let's go check on Puff." Stiles said desperately, and then he was off at the speed of light, using his dragon as an excuse to get the hell out of this situation, and get out now.

Housewarming parties were supposed to be fun. And Stiles was sure they were, when one wasn't dancing around someone you'd nearly kissed. What had he been thinking. He couldn't fall in love with the guy he was raising a kid with, that was just unheard of! Oh. Wait. 

That was it. That was the problem. Derek was always there in his life, a constant steady presence. Sure, he was grumpy. In fact, Derek had a lot of flaws. He used his fists instead of his words. He hated to talk about his feelings. He actually liked pineapple and peppers on his pizza- yes. Obviously the man was all wrong for Stiles. Fruit and pizza just didn't go together. It was sacrilege. It wasn't like he actually liked Derek, did he?

Sure. He'd been creeping into bed with Derek more and more often. But that was just because the couch was uncomfortable, and neither one of them wanted to sleep on the floor. Besides, Puff would sometimes creep out of his own nest, if he was given the incentive of both Derek and Stiles in the same bed, and then all of them would sleep piled on top of each other, and Stiles just liked the warmth, and kinship. 

And sure. Derek was surprisingly funny. It was a dry, sarcastic humor. Luckily, Sarcasm was Stiles' second language. He was fluent. So Derek and he communicated just fine. And Derek knew how he took his coffee, and where Stiles liked his curly fries to come from, and which flavor of milkshake to get with them- Oh.

They'd almost kissed before. And hugged. Stiles had always known that there was a palpable sort of sexual tension between them. But, let's be honest, who didn't want to throw Derek Hale on the ground and pounce on him like a rabid rabbit looking to do some procreating? No one, that's who. But this was different. This was more. The way Derek had looked at him. The way their hearts were pounding in unison. This wasn't just the rampant lust bunny let loose in Stiles' gut. This didn't have to do with either one of his heads. It had to do with something much, much worse. His heart. 

How could Stiles have fallen in love with someone without even noticing? How did that even happen? He'd known, with Lydia. The second she'd flipped that golden red hair his way and eyed him like he was a suspicious brown stain on the floor- he'd known. But with Derek, it was like he'd just slowly carved out a place in his heart, day by day, so easily and painlessly that Stiles hadn't even noticed it was happening in the first place. 

Derek took care of him. He took care of Puff. He built them a house. He watched Batman with Stiles, even though he thought that the Dark Knight was a ridiculous, melodramatic wreck, and that Marvel was a thousand times better than DC. He was wrong, obviously, but- he'd still done it. No, he'd done more than that, he'd marathoned all the movies with Stiles. He had been the one to get up and make popcorn. Holy shit. 

Stiles had to tell Derek. He had to tell Derek right now, that he was crazy in love with him. And they they could do more than cohabitate and coparent. They could date. Proper dating. Where they shared their milkshakes, and kissed tasting like melted ice cream. Where Derek put his arms around Stiles, when Stiles inched his way into their bed. Where Stiles could lay his head on Derek's shoulders when they were watching a movie. 

Running on bolstered confidence and hope, Stiles' eyes scanned the room for Derek. Was he by the food? No. Was he by the TV, watching sappy romcoms that Lydia had picked out? No. Was he fawning over Puff? No, no, no. Where the hell had Derek gone? Surely he hadn't left his own housewarming party. 

Last resort- the door. And what Stiles saw at the door made his blood run cold. Not the horrible choice of oak wood over cherry. That wasn't the problem. The problem, was that the door was cracked open a smidge. And getting wider. Someone, was opening the door. And the entire pack was already here. 

In Beacon Hills, you had to take it one problem at a time. Between Dragons, falling in love, and family, sometimes, you lost track of another very important element of the story. A very important element holding a knife to Derek Hale's throat. An element with gleaming, inhuman eyes, and long brown hair that was tossed around her head, vibrating with static electricity. Stiles remembered that hair being wet with blood as Derek pushed her off of him, Stiles having just knocked her out with- Oh God. With Puff. Stiles had been positive that Derek had 'disposed' of her, in the woods. Apparently not. And now it was coming back to bite him on the ass. 

"I think you have something of mine." Her voice slithered around the room like a disgusting version of Puff's hissing, and one by one the Pack froze, and abandoned the party. Automated laughter played in the background while the plucky heroine in Lydia's movie tried to find her true love. 

"Somebody go hide Puff."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, folks. This is the end. And I wanna take this moment to thank each and every single beautiful angelic one of you. You're fantastic, you're amazing, and you are all more magical than dragons. You've given me so much encouragement and joy on my very first attempt at fic, and I could not, absolutely could not thank you more for it. Thank you, thank you, thank you, I love you, I don't deserve you, you're the best, wow. I can only hope I gave you an eensy weensy sliver of the complete and utter giggling, squeaking, blush on my cheeks joy I got out of this.

In the movies, Witches were one of two things. They were green, covered in warts and allergic to water- or, they sparkled and smiled and a starred wand pointed you down the right yellow brick road. Stiles was really, really, wishing for a house squishing and some shiny red shoes right about now. Because the wicked witch was seconds from whisking Stiles' home right out from under him faster than a Kansas tornado.

Derek, was his home. Part of it. It was Derek, Puff, the gleaming new wood that Derek had sanded smooth all by himself, making them a place in the world. A place of their own. It was this place, their place. And Stiles wasn't backing down without a fight. Except that knife looked awfully sharp, ready to lop the head off a sacrificial lamb in the form of a wolf. And the thin skin of Derek's throat looked so awfully fragile. It was hard, to kill a werewolf. You had to stab a lot of times, shoot with the right bullets, burn them to ashes- and even then, it wasn't a certain deal.

In particular, Derek Hale had survived. More than anyone in the pack, it was Derek, who was the fighter. He was the one who'd struggled through this nightmare life with blood on his teeth and fire burning up inside him. He had been all but tossed up a cliff, and then had hauled himself right back up with his own claws, until his fingers were bleeding from clinging to that cliff's edge of existence. But he'd stayed. He'd survived. And he was still fighting. And fighting on the side of the good guys.

That was what had shocked Stiles the most, about Derek Hale, when they were just starting out, and things were still uncertain, and Stiles was looking desperately for someone to blame. That Derek was, at his very core, a good guy. A hero. A hero with the backstory of a Supervillain.

Stiles would have gone bad. No question about it. If he'd lost everything, faced defeat at every turn- he'd have given up. He'd have given in. He'd have gone to the dark side. He'd want revenge and blood and something to make him feel strong and alive again. It was hard to remember, sometimes. That through all this hell, through all this horror, that their side, Scott's side, they'd only really lost one person. Allison. It was all Stiles' fault, sure- but it was only the one person.

How many people had Derek lost? Paige. His mother, his father, his sisters, his uncle, his world. His pack. Twice, that had been ripped away from him. Twice, Derek had been left all alone. Erica. Boyd. Derek lost everything. He didn't have good days. He had days where people lived, and that just had to be good enough. Stiles could barely cope with losing Allison. Derek had coped with losing entire families and still come out protecting people.

Even more than that- protecting Stiles. Protecting Scott. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve any of this, but he was stuck in it, because he was trying so damn hard to protect a pack that hadn't even accepted him, at first. Derek Hale could be gone. He could be out of this graveyard town, living the high life. He didn't have to see ghosts at every corner in Beacon Hills, he didn't have to fight until he bled and hurt and lost. He didn't have to be here. He shouldn't, be here.

He was here, because a couple of stupid kids were in over their heads, and he'd never quite stopped caring about them. Derek Hale was a helper. He tried to teach Scott to be a wolf, tried to keep them away from all this. Derek Hale was rough and coarse and he hurt people a lot, and his words were harder than his abs. But he was trying so damned hard. He was always, always, trying so damned hard. And that's why Stiles loved him.

Sure, he was the man who'd shove Stiles into a steering wheel, call him scrawny, spastic, whatever came to mind. But he was also the man who'd fight Stiles' fights for him. He was the one who'd include the stupid human in pack matters. He was the one who'd taken care of an actual dragon, who could torch this entire joint, again, at any moment. He had done everything in his power, to make other people happy.

And it was only now, when Stiles was watching Derek's adam's apple bob dangerously close to the point of the knife that he realized no one really did anything for him in return.

Stiles took, sure. He took a new house with a room facing east so he could see the sun rise. He took the food Derek hunted and prepared, took the help raising Puff, took the strength in battle that he relied on to save his ass, every time. He took a whole lot. But he didn't give much back. No one did.

No one comforted Derek when he was broken and hurting. No one bound up his wounds and brushed away his tears, and kissed the salt off his cheeks, like Stiles' mom had done, when he was just a kid, and a skinned knee was the end of the world. Nobody ever did anything for Derek Hale. They saved his life sometimes, sure. But that was it. Just his life. Not his heart, not his happiness, just his life. No one made him food for once, or turned on his favorite tv show when he came home tired. Nobody had ever held him while he was mourning.

It was a hard thing to realize. All the grieving Derek had done. All the people he had lost- he'd done it on his own. No one there to hold his hand, or shed tears with him, or so much as say 'I'm sorry'. Death had become something they were all so used to, that they just packed it up and moved on. If they thought about it, if they hurt about it, they'd fall apart, like puppets with cut strings.

Explained why Derek had a wall around him so thick it would rival the volume of Les Mis. Stiles had tried, once. He remembered that. Derek's knees were wet and he was kneeling, and there was such total and utter devastation on his face that it made Stiles physically ache. All he'd done was put his hand on his shoulder. He hadn't thought anything else was welcome. He hadn't known what else to do.

Now he did. Now he knew the times of night that Derek tossed and turned the most. Now he knew the way Derek ate his chicken and the way his eyes lit up when Stiles suggested they watch anything historically accurate. Derek liked Marco Polo on Netflix. Derek liked gumshoe detectives, like Dick Tracy. Derek liked his soft red sweater and a good hard run, and black coffee with cinnamon and enough sugar to rot every single fang. Derek liked it when Puff puffed up real big and opened his snake slitted eyes real wide, proud and earnest, and croaked out a 'Dany' that sounded just close enough to 'Dery' to warrant Derek's praise. Derek liked it when Stiles scented up his couch and everything smelled of pack.

Knowing too late, was almost as bad as not knowing at all. 

Now what would he do? What would Stiles do? Trade in Puff for Derek? Not an option. Let Derek die? Never. Fight? How could he fight when there was a knife one papercut away from Derek bleeding out on the floor of his own home? What could Stiles do. 

They outnumbered the witch. An entire pack of werewolves, forming ranks to protect what was theirs. Pretty hard for Stiles to protect what was his, when what was his was one wrong nod away from being shish-ke-babbed. He didn't give the witch what she wanted, he didn't get Derek back in one piece. And he'd rather fork himself over on a silver platter with an apple in his mouth than give that witch with a B his baby. Didn't matter who'd summoned him, or whose blood was on the egg. Stiles was the one who had raised that dragon, damn it.

If she didn't put up with tantrums that led to Stiles' favorite punny t-shirt in tatters, or diapers so full that Stiles was pretty sure he needed to buy his own dump site for toxic materials, or glittering shinies all over the house because the baby was hoarding, or hissing and flying and eating too much and that big snaggletoothed lizard grin and that out of place spike on Puff's back- She was not the parent. She was not entitled to Puff. Puff was Stiles', and Derek's, and he wasn't going anywhere.

Unfortunately, Stiles didn't want Derek to go anywhere either. Especially not six feet under. Stiles didn't want another headstone to talk to. He wanted the real life man. He refused to bring flowers to a grave, instead of to a date. That wasn't how it was supposed to go. 

Derek's eyes were screaming for Stiles to save himself. Knowing Derek, if he could open his jaw without getting it dangerously close to the business end of a ritual knife, he'd be going full martyr. 'Let her kill me, Stiles. I don't matter. Just make sure Puff is safe.' And he was right, sure. If Derek was dead, the witch had no leverage. The pack would close in on her in seconds, rip her apart in less. But he was also an idiot, because Derek mattered. Derek mattered so much. More than the world, more than life, more than happiness. Derek mattered so much that right now Stiles felt like he was made out of ice, cracking under pressure, and about to fly out into ten thousand sharp shards, tumble to the floor in a gleaming, ruined mess.

"Thought you'd taken out the trash already." Stiles was desperately grasping at straws, bluffing. He was putting up a front. If there was anything that comic books had taught him, is that if you get the villain to monologue, it inevitably led to their defeat. And usually, what got the villain going was a bit of witty repartee with the hero.

Stiles wasn't a hero, and he was too busy barely holding himself together to be witty. But it enraged her all the same, apparently, because a drop of blood beaded up and dripped into the lighter scuff edging down the hollow of Derek's throat. Stiles traced the path of the red and barely contained a whimper of fear, or a scream of rage.

Pretty sure that if he wasn't so damn scared right now, of losing Derek just when he'd found him, properly- he'd be ripping off his shirt, Hulk style, demanding him and this witch dance battle it out. Magic to- kind of spark. Put up your dukes, lady. He'd say. She'd definitely win, but he'd have worn her down, like the first person that tried to open a pickle jar and 'loosened it' before the actual strong person cracked it open. That's what he told himself.

He wasn't even a good student. He chewed on pencils and nearly ignored Deaton every session they had. He used his magic for light invisibility spells, floating the remote, and occasionally freaking out over a baby dragon's Houdini impression. He didn't use it to fight. That was just crazy. He couldn't fight. He was a weak, frail human- Oh, screw it.

"You let him go, and you can have me. We go mano a- womano. Whoever comes out on top, gets what they want."

It was a good attempt. His bravado was at an all time high, and he was pretty sure it made him look pretty dramatic, shoulders and jaw squared, ready for a fight to the death. It took about one smirk to knock all the hot air out of him like he'd just been punched in the gut. She looked- amused. Like his dramatics were funny. Cute, even, like a Kindergartener playing a flower in the school play. He deflated faster than a balloon with a hole.

"Nice try. Still not stupid enough to hand over a perfectly good hostage for a fight that's actually an opportunity for your pack to- how did you put it? Take out the trash?" Her laugh was melodious. It pissed him off a little. She ought to sound shrieking and hollow, and a whole lot more like she was cackling from a broomstick, followed by her winged monkey slaves. "It isn't the prom, I know, but I think you ought to put the little thing in the dumpster. You can always make more. This handsome, handsome boy looks like he could give you an entire litter."

Her nails were ragged and there was dirt underneath, as she took Derek's cheek in between two claws and pinched. Hard enough to pierce flesh with one of those filthy things and draw blood. Stiles lurched forwards, but one more drop of blood down Derek's beard had him holding back, staying where he was, seething with hatred. How dare she touch him. How dare she hurt him. How dare she put one grotesque fingernail near him. How dare she imply that Stiles was the kind of teenage mother that would dump his kid with the rest of the unwanted things and take off?

And how dare she not follow the plan. How dare she not make things easy, like the villains in the movies. How dare she not follow the plot where the hero gets his man back and everyone lives happily ever after, except for her, destined to be a melted puddle at the end. How dare things not end well.

That's how it was supposed to be. The good guys were supposed to win, and the bad guys were supposed to fail. But that never happened. The good guys died one by one, and the bad guys kept coming and coming, and the good guys kept fighting and fighting, and in the end, they lost. They lost their friends, they lost their humanity, they lost their hope that things would get better. They didn't get that comic book finish where the world was at peace and they'd won again. They didn't get to be okay after this.

Their villains didn't monologue and get sloppy. Their villains kept their knives close to skin, and hid skinny bodies behind a broad werewolf so well that even a bullet wouldn't take her out, not if it was shot by the most talented sniper in the world. Their villains had magic dancing on their skin, and a smile sharper than steel's edge. His villain didn't leave Stiles a choice.

"Puff. Come here, cream puff."

His pudgy little body was quaking, scales rattling against each other. And he was emitting a constant low whine. He knew something was wrong, same as everyone else did. He knew things were scary and messed up and that Stiles wasn't making it better yet. But when he crawled up into Stiles' arms, curling his tail tight around Stiles' bicep, his entire body burrowed close enough into Stiles that he could only wish he had a kangaroo pouch, to keep his own baby safe and out of sight and close to him. 

Puff's eyes were so big and scared. But they looked at Stiles with such innocent trust, that it broke his heart. This dragon, this baby, trusted him to make it all alright. He trusted him to be the one who made things not scary anymore. Because that's what Stiles did for him.

Stiles turned on the hall light when Puff decided he was scared of the dark for a few nights. Stiles was the one who put the movie's volume lower than he ever had, so it didn't mess with a dragon's sensitive ears. Stiles took away all the bad things. Hunger pangs were fixed with the warm scent of meat and broth, cold was easily rectified by ducking under Stiles' hoodie, or his blanket. Loneliness had never been present in the first place, because Stiles was always there for him. Puff trusted Stiles with everything in his scaly little body, and Stiles was about to betray him.

"No! Stiles, what the hell are you thinking?" The pack was all chorusing in on their dismay, eyes wide and mouths open. Scott even tried to pull Stiles back, but Stiles throw him off sharply. And Derek- Stiles couldn't meet Derek's eyes. 

He walked over like a prisoner would walk to the electric chair. Like every step was taken on a road of hot coals and needles. Like every movement pained him. His arms were so tight around Puff that the dragon let out a shocked squeak, making Stiles relent, and loosen his hold. He was a foot away from her when he broke down. 

Shaking like a leaf, he shoved his face down into the familiar silky glide of Puff's scales, inhaling the familiar scent of baby and reptile. He stroked him over and over again with hands that trembled, and whispered assurances into his chain link scale armor. "It's going to be okay buddy. I love you. I'm always gonna take care of you, and do what's best for you. It's going to be okay. We're going to be fine, all of us. You, me, and Derek. We're gonna be a family."

The final nail in his coffin was Puff's soft, tiny hiss of 'Derk'. He turned his head so no one saw how wet and red his eyes were. 

"Yeah, cheese puff. Derek. All of us. The family. We're gonna be back to normal in no time." He reassured him with a voice that quaked harder than jello during an earthquake. 

"Enough of the theatrics." Stiles could actually hear her roll her eyes, and he glared hard at the witch, though he doubted it came off as threatening when he looked as bad as he did. he was a wreck. "Stop the dramatics, give me the dragon, and Derek here doesn't die." When this was all over, Stiles thought viciously, he was going to kill her slow, and painful, and dramatic, the way Derek should have done the moment she was unconscious and easy prey.

Everyone looked on in horror as he made his choice, and crossed that final gap between them. He was forced to look into Derek's eyes, if just because of proximity, and he was pretty sure that everyone heard the actual snapping sound that his heart made while it broke in two neat halves. Derek was crying. Not one tear. Not two. An entire river. Not a sound, not a move- but there were enough tears flowing down his cheeks to fill an ocean. 

Strong, tough Derek. Who didn't shed a tear when he lost person upon person, when he took hit after hit after hit. Derek Hale, who kicked emotion's ass every day, and locked them up in a cage more secure than Alcatraz. He was crying. For Stiles. For Puff. He was screaming, in the only way that he could, 'Don't do it'. Stiles did it. 

He put his baby in a strangers arms, and let Derek fall into his. 

And then he dumped Derek on his taunt, muscled ass, and attacked.

See, it only took that one moment. That one moment of triumph, where she thought she'd emerged as the victor, when she thought she'd won, that she had what she wanted, and today went to her. The knife, it wasn't aimed at Puff yet. He was too valuable to her. She wouldn't risk losing what she'd come here for. But Stiles, Stiles was no fool. Stiles had gone to drama camp for two years chasing after Lydia Martin. Stiles, had read every comic book in existence. Stiles, was the man with the plan.

And the plan was to aim his arm at the knife, and take it like a champ. One couldn't exactly slice and dice when their only weapon was buried hilt deep in their potential victim. And it wasn't like he was gonna die of an arm stabbing. It wasn't a fatal blow. He was good to go.

He was screaming in pain, actually. Howling worse than an actual wolf. Turns out, being stabbed- it hurt like a son of a bitch. No, really. It was worse than fire, it was full on acid, driving into your body again and again and never stopping. It was white hot and it made him want nothing more than to curl into a fetal position and pray for it to stop. He didn't exactly have that luxury, seeing as he was currently down and out dirty wrestling with a witch.

Puff was squalling on the floor with Derek, the pack was standing on in shock, not sure whether to get involved in this fight, or to just start up the popcorn, and Stiles was shrieking his head off and trying to strangle a witch. It was chaos, it was awful, and Stiles was pretty sure he wasn't winning, if the knife in his arm and the clawmarks down his face were anything to go by. He really, really needed to disinfect those clawmarks. Komodo dragons killed by keeping the rancid flesh of their prey under their nails and scratching new prey with it, thus poisoning them to death. Stiles had a feeling the witch operated in pretty much the same way.

Touching her was electric with magic. And obviously, she was trying to push at him, trying to lash out, to take him down, to cause him pain with some kind of incantation- but it wasn't working. Stiles' spark kicking in? Really, really good luck? Lily Potter had died to protect him from Voldemort? Stiles couldn't care less. He was invulnerable, he was fighting for his life, and he was going to have lost his voice tomorrow with all the pained yowling he was doing.

In the end, it was Puff, who decided how the battle ended. 

In the form of batting his little bat wings with the fury Stiles had previously only seen in a honey badger on national geographic, getting very up close and personal with a witches hair, and deciding that enough was enough.

Later on, cradling his little ball of rage Stiles would proudly declare that Puff was some kind of prodigy. Derek would argue that it was just animal instinct, that it had finally kicked in because Puff had felt threatened, and he knew that his mother was writhing around in the ground in agony, and it set him off. Either way, the result was the same.

Puff summoned up the smallest, tiniest flame in the world. And it was enough to set that witch bitches head on fire.

All that long brown hair that had tangled and waved about her face like Medusa's snakes was eaten up by red and orange and she was screaming, and Stiles was screaming, and the whole world went very bright. 

Turns out, one didn't melt a witch with water. One melted them the old fashioned way. With dragonfire.

She burned a hole right through Derek's nice new floor, singed a hole in Stiles' favorite jeans, and scorched the edges of Derek's magnificent eyebrows. And the moment she was ash, which, took surprisingly little time (Stiles hypothesized that dragons had some kind of extra flamey accelerant in the fire they spat, probably involved in their saliva, but no one really believed him) Derek was on Stiles like a dog, or, shall we say a wolf on a steak.

He was holding him and kissing him, and this was a really fucked up thing to do, with a dead body now ashes about two feet away, Stiles still a stabbing victim, and both of them bleeding and traumatized. Stiles still kissed him. He kissed him through the whimpers of pain, kissed him through the stinging tears of relief, kissed him right through the crackling of the last embers dying down. And then he shoved him off with his one good arm, and dived for his dragon.

Stiles was no medical man, but he looked over Puff with a meticulous, mother's eye, and found nothing wrong except a tiny little spark, dying on the side of the dragon's cheek. He really did take after Stiles. Spark and all.

It was pretty much a blur, after that. The maternal instinct and adrenaline was no longer powering Stiles and he was forced to remember that yes, he did indeed have a long pointy object currently taking up space in his arm, and yes, he was losing blood like someone had turned on a faucet, and yes, this had just been the single most terrifying day of his life. He was pretty sure he passed out. He may or may not have kissed Derek again in the process. He still didn't know if that was a fantasy, Derek trying to give him the kiss of life because he thought Stiles was dying, or if Stiles actually had his priorities so messed up that kissing Derek while his vision was fading to black seemed like the logical thing to do.

Either way, he ended up in the hospital, attached to a bunch of monitors. His dad chewed him out, Melissa gave him and earful, Scott snuck him food and told him he was both a badass and a dumbass, and Derek? Derek didn't move from his spot at Stiles' bedside for the entire stay in the hospital. And sometimes, whether it was under Derek's henley or the covers of Stiles' bed, there was a little moving lump emitting some very strange, almost reptilian noises. No one asked. In Beacon Hills, a dragon in the hospital was the absolute least of their problems.

Derek fixed the floor. Derek fucked Stiles on the floor. Puff lit his own birthday candles, and several of Stiles and Derek's prized possessions on fire. Derek also had to rebuild the cabinets, now in fiery smithereens. 

And in the end, the real end- they always made it work. Because a family is messy and it's fiery, and it's a lot harder than anyone thinks. But a family always makes it work. Stiles found his family. Derek found his family. Puff- Puff never even had to go searching for a family in the first place. He'd known who he belonged with since the moment he hatched. But never tell Stiles and Derek that. Puff wanted them to think that getting together was all their idea.


End file.
